237,000 miles of memories

Published: Thursday, October 17, 2013 at 4:18 p.m.

Last Modified: Thursday, October 17, 2013 at 4:18 p.m.

When a car lives as long and well as my VW Beetle, it deserves to go out with a little drama.

I'd spent a most relaxing and well-earned weekend at the beach with my teacher friends — the so-called book club where nobody reads the books. We'd had a remarkably beautiful Saturday, with the sun reaching late summer highs.

A long, long walk on the beach after breakfast and a late lunch meant it was 3 p.m. that Sunday before my friend Lynn and I headed back home. I'd deliver her to her home in Concord and then head on up to Lexington. At home, my husband had salmon ready to grill.

We were laughing and talking as we moved on down N.C. Highway 130, then U.S. 211 and onto that long stretch of U.S. 74 that would take us most of the way home. Just outside Laurinburg, two police cars had pulled a vehicle over on the shoulder, so I changed lanes and geared down to pass. But when I tried to gear back up again, my car coughed.

"Something's wrong," I said to Lynn as I eased over to the right lane and made it to the shoulder just as the cough became a sputter. Black smoke poured out the tailpipe. The two police cars — did they check their rear view mirrors to see a car in distress? Apparently not — drove on.

I killed the engine and we hopped out. I popped the hood. Nothing smoked or spewed there, but that black smoke pouring out the backside was thick as night. (Later we discovered that it burned a good-sized hole in the grass just behind the exhaust pipes.) When I tried to accelerate, nothing happened.

We called AAA. "He'll be there in an hour," said the dispatcher of the tow truck driver. "He'll know where to tow you."

As we settled in for the hour wait, I realized I was in trouble of another kind — we'd been on the road two hours, and for those two hours, I'd been drinking tea. I had to go — real bad.

There were no convenient trees on the side of the road, just a house behind some bushes. I could take off walking — but to where? For all we knew, it was still a good five miles to that civilization called Laurinburg. I could get the tow truck driver to stop at a Hardee's, but it would be a while before he arrived.

"Open the passenger door and make a shield," said our friends back on the beach. They were now sitting on the front porch of our beach cottage, sipping wine. "Oncoming cars won't be able to see."

It was a great idea. And it would have worked just fine, but we were on a curve, which meant that travelers in both directions would get an eye full.

"Do you really care?" Lynn asked. She's the mother of three children. "Kind of," I said.

So we sat a while longer, talked a bit more. I checked my watch and my rear view mirror. No tow truck in sight. Cars zipped by in both directions.

"I've got it!" I said. "Beach towel!" It was brilliant. With Lynn holding the towel, the car door open on one side and the car itself on the other, we created a sort of three-sided room. Only the house on the hill had a full view, and by now, I assure you, I didn't care.

So, Lynn climbed in the back seat of the cab and I took the front beside Randall. We set the GPS and off we went.

He could fly in that tow truck, reaching speeds of over 70 miles per hour. I liked Randall. We both did. He lived in the little town of Fairmont, had two children who were staying with his mother tonight. His wife died in a tragic car accident a year ago. He was a former Cub Scout, a super nice guy.

It was dark when we pulled into the repair shop in Lexington two hours later. My husband met us, and Lynn's was waiting at our house.

Our adventure ended — so we thought. The next day I talked with the mechanic. "You blew out your turbo," he said, shaking his head. He didn't need to say more.

The next day, just to double-check my decision not to repair, I called the service manager at the dealership. When I told her what the mechanic had told me, her response was, "Oh no."

That's when I knew it was really over.

While signing papers for the new one, my husband and I told Beetle stories. "Remember that time we took it to Key West? Remember passing everything on the highway?"

Yeah, I remember.

At 237,000 miles and 11 years, I've got no complaints.

The new one is a sweet ride, but it's not nearly as fun. After all, few things can beat chugging down the highway in a Volkswagen Beetle, sunroof open, windows down, that diesel engine humming like a song.

Barbara Presnell is a poet and teacher of writing who lives in Lexington. Contact her at www.barbarapresnell.com.

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